The lights dimmed as the purr
of gossip and chatter drew to a halt. Glossy haired girls fixated their eyes on
the catwalk in anticipation, occasionally glancing towards the trophy
celebrities adorning the front row. The photographers clicked their cameras
into place as fashion’s elite clutched their iPhones, hash-tagging LFW, poised
to make or break this collection with a hundred and twenty characters or less.
The first bars of the electro soundtrack pounded alongside my heart as I looked
around the spacious venue. This is where I had longed to be for eighteen years,
day in, day out, and as the first delicate model emerged in a bold, botanical
print I sat upright and watched, every little detail was magical and the entire
experience surpassed my already sky-high expectations.
London Fashion Week is a
mecca for the countless British girls longing to make it in the industry. It is
the be all and end all, and I have always seen it as something of a fantasy.
The chic sorts who create the glossy magazines we devour every month emerge
from their pristine offices, heels clicking fiercely, and descend on Somerset
House. They casually pose for the bloggers, hands in pockets, showcasing new
season McQueen like it was made for them, before taking their front row seats
at the ‘it’ shows, deciding who to make or break.
By some divine miracle, I had
ended up among these glamourous creatures, elated and nervous in equal parts.
Carefully considered ice blue jeans were my nod to the new season and I held my
trophy mini-Mulberry, as if a designer bag might boost my credentials. I am
hardly Olivia Palermo, but I secretly hoped for the bloggers to adore my style.
A couple of snaps later, one of which was simply of my Panda phone-cover, I
felt a less of a misfit. There are aspects of London Fashion Week that are unlike
anything else in the world, it is at first uplifting but above all inspiring.
Clueless, a friend and I
walked into Somerset House, brandishing LFW Daily and watching the seasoned
fashion folk that passed us by. A svelte blonde woman darted past in distressed
denim and a zingy fluorescent jacket, my head zapped round, helplessly
attracted to neon, and immediately it was clear that this was unknown
territory. Used to admiring the London fashion scene from afar, through the
window of my laptop, I was used to a much tamer version of fashion, where a
dark lipstick is groundbreaking. By contrast, anything goes in London. Sheer
palazzo pants are greeted by admiring glances, vivid Katrantzou-esque prints
are standard and you could wear a fascinator on the underground without so much
as a perplexed stare. It is a place where individuality is welcomed and
whole-heartedly embraced. In all sincerity, where could be better?
Fashion Week is where London’s
darlings come to flourish. You have the long limbed Alexa Chung brigade wearing
what could be their grandmother’s cardigan and grandfather’s slippers, yet
still looking unfeasibly stylish. You have the street-style magnets that wear a
bare minimum of four trends at once, carefully executed and styled to
perfection. Then you have the ones that try too hard, almost clown-like in
their attire, yet still they exude the vivacity and fearlessness of London
style. They look ridiculous, but fabulously so.
Standing in the queue opposite
those holding their invites, one cannot help but feel a little disheartened. A
number of us stood shivering, hoping that somebody would have a devastating
clash between shows, or that they would encounter a frustrating underground
delay forcing them to miss out so we could get in. I just longed to know what
it was like, to sit at one of the catwalk shows I would spend hours dissecting,
writing out detailed reports that only I would read.
The deceptive February sunshine
was little consolation as we stood in the icy shade, waiting to hear our fate.
A few everlasting moments later, I could not believe my luck as the tall man
standing by the doors ushered us in, the first ten. We navigated through the
crowds before finding a gap on the second last bench and taking our seats.
For the lucky ones who
frequent fashion week, gliding from Milan to Paris, this undoubtedly sounds
silly. The thrill of my first day at fashion week is madness. For them it is
stressful, too many shows and too little time. The champagne reception here, the
after party there and then there are the droves of budding designers that want
to impress them. During fashion week, their time is as sparse as their
wardrobes are full. Nevertheless, I envy
them. That one day I spent at London Fashion Week, albeit sans invite, was a
dream come true, and nothing can compare.
MORE ABOUT MY FIRST LFW HERE.
PS
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